


Use me up and wear me out

by eldritcher



Series: Pandemic [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Established Sexual Relationship, Filthy, Kink, M/M, Obscurials (Harry Potter), Porn, Sex, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: Voldemort hadn't expected Harry would have this filthy, foul-mouthed streak to him. Perhaps he should have remembered that Harry was an editor of erotic fan-fiction.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: Pandemic [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137872
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	Use me up and wear me out

Swanage,   
December 2020

Harry was restless, pacing in circles about me as I hung the linen to dry on the clotheslines. The weather matched him, with skies of grey swollen and heavy, with rising tide battering the cliffs, with a gale that was unseasonably warm for the heart of December. 

"It has been a shitty year, hasn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "Suicide rates spiking across the country! A recession unparalleled in modern history! A bloody pandemic that eats your magic and leaves you a squib, if you are lucky enough to survive it! And to think that I had hoped I would find the One this year!"

The One. In his quixotic head, ours was a quarantine tryst. It defied my fathoming how he passed off our compatibility as transient happenstance. Perhaps it ought to worry me that he thought I had invited a most dangerous stranger into my home, and into my bed, in the middle of a pandemic.

Scowling as he contemplated the year that was not, he went to kick at the bole of the ash tree that stood watch over my home. A bough, young and green, fell from the tree upon his head.

"This tree hates me, I swear!" he muttered, wincing as he rubbed his head. "This is the twentieth time."

I suppressed a smile at that. Ash had been Abraxas's wand. Under ash trees, I knew sanctuary. Harry, for all his cleverness, missed the obvious before him. 

The weather took a turn for the worse, and hail skittered down. Sighing, I gathered the linen to take it inside. It was eleven in the morning, and it was as dark as moonless night. 

"See!" He brandished an arm at nature's wrath. "Can you believe this? 2020!"

And he missed the obvious once more, as the tips of his fingers turned to smoke. I bundled the linen into my arms, and made my way back inside before his frustration brought upon us a snowstorm. Returning abruptly to chivalry, he came to hold the door open for me. I cast my gratitude in magic's weave, and ensconced him in the emotion. His fingers coalesced back to flesh at this act of service. 

His magic settled when he took care of another, when he pleased another, when he knew that he was useful to another. 

Little wonder why Dumbledore had sent him to Swanage, to me. The Obscurus in Harry held the power to level cities. Dumbledore had his hands full with a sentient Castle he was married to. I was the only other who could effortlessly speak in magic's silent song. So to me Harry came. 

Harry continued blissfully unaware of the undercurrents of the situation, of the danger he posed. I did not mean to enlighten him. The cure was close. It merely required him to accept that he had found the One, that his desperate longing of a lifetime to find a partner who matched him was sated. If one had been yearning for nearly four decades, it must be nigh impossible to believe that the wait was over. 

Hail was ruining my flower beds. What of the roof? 

This needed to end. My patience, once considered inexhaustible, ran dry. 

"I am going to bed until the weather turns," I told him. 

I could not bring myself to be forward enough to invite him along. Thankfully, his perspicacity in this aspect outstripped mine. He laughed and accompanied me, boldly drawing me into a kiss before we had even closed the bedroom door behind us. 

Perhaps this was the key, I mused, as he stripped me with deft hands. The weather was turning as he moved from vexation to delight. This boded well for the roof. 

"You are far away," he said grumpily. 

"I am in your hands," I pointed out.

That stilled him. His eyes were bright in want as he thumbed the corner of my mouth. 

"Is that your wish today?" 

The eagerness in his tone was matched by the blazing sunlight that poured in through the large bay windows of my bedroom. It had not been my wish, but anything that contented the Obscurus and opened his oblivious eyes to the truth was acceptable at this juncture. Perhaps, when he had me at his mercy, he would see what his heart had chosen. 

"I see that it is your wish," I teased him. 

"Oh, it is!" he exclaimed, taking a step away from me, perusing my nudity in wicked delight. Catching me by the waist, he spun me about.

"Was that necessary?" I asked, reeling from the abruptness of his maneuvering.

He brushed a kiss along a shoulder blade, and his stubble lefts marks of memory upon my skin. Then he bore us down to the bed, in a dramatic and unnecessary tackle, that served no purpose but to leave me winded and startled and clinging to him. Perhaps that had been the purpose, I noted absently, as he glowed above me wearing a merry grin that became him so. 

"Wait," I remonstrated, when he brought his hand to my cock. 

Stormclouds gathered outside swift. Bedding an oblivious Obscurial was a tempestuous affair. 

"What is it?" he asked, disgruntled. 

"Role play."

He stared at me as if I had grown another head. 

"I did not take you as the type to enact doctors and patients in bed," he said cautiously. It was my turn to gawk at him. _Doctors and patients_. Then he hastily backpedaled, "Not kink shaming, mind you! What would you like to role play? I could conjure a stethoscope."

A stethoscope? I shook my head. 

"Something more hardcore, then?" He asked bravely. "Speculums? A gynecologist's chair? Prostate examinations?"

The trouble with bedding an oblivious Obscurial who moonlighted as an editor of erotic fiction his friends wrote was that his mind went to the bizarre rather swiftly, leaving me trailing in his wake befuddled by what sex had become in the modern age. Abraxas had been a lover prone to decadent and uninhibited excess. I had been carried along for the ride, and had thoroughly enjoyed myself. Harry was a sexually frustrated and near-virginal forty-year-old man who had lived vicariously through watching pornography on the internet and editing erotic novellas his friends wrote about Dumbledore and Firenze. His unrealistic notion of what sex must be was at odds with what sex was. 

"Sounding? Milking?" he went on. 

I hoped I portrayed a worldly facade despite how it was all Greek to me. I needed to put an end to this, before he reached necrophilia and cannibalism. 

"The One, Harry," I cut in, as he paused for a breath in between rattling off kinks associated with role play. 

He looked at me gobsmacked. 

"Pretend that I am the One," I proposed. 

A strike of lightning blazed bright upon the cliffs. Wide-eyed, wounded, he bent to kiss me. His fingers turned to smoke. I gentled his magic with mine, until he calmed to settle in his flesh once more. 

"All right," he said quietly. 

He cupped my cheek, and the tenderness in the gesture stung. His touch knew what his mind refused to see. Overwhelmed, I turned to press my lips to the core of his palm. 

"I don't know if I can," he confessed. "You are _you_." 

I was charmed by his words, as a maid given her first compliment. He found me remarkable, even if he did not see his choice. 

"We can change that," I told him. "You may change that."

I hoped he would glean my meaning. He was intuitive in bed, when it came to my predilections.

"I had not expected you to be so," he murmured, caressing my brow in the manner of a man cradling his beloved.

What had he expected of me? 

I had not denied Abraxas anything, for he had chosen me, for he had been the first to choose an orphan reviled and unwanted. That choice had led me to two wars, and to Godric's Hollow, and to thirteen years of dispossession. I had lost sanity and soul. I had returned to find myself a widower, and my magic wore plain mourning's heavy verdure. 

Harry had chosen me, and his magic confessed to me what his mind refused to admit. He had chosen me. Upon my magic's evergreen rose the red of holly, deep-rooted and prickly, stinging me with truth's venom. I was his choice. Why would I deny him anything? 

"What shall you change?" I asked him, and hated the tremor in my voice.

I did not care to know if he had painted face and form and voice to his longing. A concept, an ideal, an abstraction, I could grapple with. If his longing had taken on the shape of a man I was not- 

Well, I would find out. His heart had chosen. It was merely a waiting game, I reassured myself. 

He gazed at me thoughtfully. Then he reached across for his wand. 

Hair? Musculature? Eyes? What would he change? I waited with bated breath, schooling my expression into dispassion, despite how my pulse thudded staccato in my ears. 

Then I lost my sight. An obscuring charm. 

"I want you sightless," he murmured. 

"A blindfold would have served, Harry." 

"The picture you make, wide-eyed and waiting at my whim," he said lightly, thumbing the thin skin under my eyes. I flushed at the casual liberty of his touch. "Vulnerable. Embarrassed. Shaken. Oh, a blindfold would not have served at all. Your eyes carry your emotions faithfully, did you know?"

Abraxas had said that before. He had enjoyed employing this charm upon me. My tastes in men had not improved. 

"Harry-"

"Silence should suit you," he interrupted. "Open your mouth. Wider. I want to use you up and wear you out." 

Did he mean to take my mouth? I was prone on the bed. My skills at cocksucking, mediocre as they were, would not aid us in that endeavor if he kept me in this position. He ran his fingers along the lines of my teeth, scratching at the gums. 

"Curious, reckless thing," he breathed, and the awe in his voice was stark. "I could harm you."

He may not know the truth of his choice, but he would not harm me. It was not in his nature. And even if it were, even if I had been mistaken, my magic would not let me come to harm. It had protected me through war and insanity and dispossession. It had saved me from my recklessness, time and time again. 

He pinched my tongue between his fingers, lifting it up and out, and proceeded to explore the underside, scratching along the sensitive frenulum, that anchored muscle to mouth. Surprised, I tried to move away from the odd sensation, but he shifted forward to kneel straddling my head, with his thighs pinning me down. 

"Nobody has touched you here before," he deduced easily from my reaction. The lust in his voice was blatant. His cock swung wet on my face, and I closed my eyes instinctively. 

"Look at me," he ordered. "I like watching you."

He liked watching me. Was he talking to me? Was he talking to the One he envisioned? 

"Good. Very good. I am going to fuck your mouth like this." He grabbed my hands and placed them on his knees. "Pinch if you are overwhelmed."

Then, without even as much as a by your leave, he lifted my tongue and began dipping his cock into my mouth, fucking along the underside of the tongue. His scent was everywhere, but the strangeness of how his cock dragged shallow against the frenulum and the floor of my mouth left me reeling. 

It was different. It was new. And I reveled in how he struggled to keep his pace steady and measured. I had little I could control, hemmed in by him as I was, above and about and within, but I began to undulate my tongue as best as I could. 

"You like being surprised," he remarked, seeing how well I took to it. I could not see him, but his magic touched mine in unconscious reverence. 

He pulled out, and bent to stick his tongue under mine, to fuck me with greedy stabs along my mouth's floor and frenulum, stealing away the taste of his cock, leaving me with nothing. 

"All right?" he asked softly. I nodded. 

"Words," he demanded, slapping me. 

His masterfulness knew no bounds. Why hadn't I seen this before? Abraxas had often called me innocent in these matters. He had shielded me from the world, and had inculcated this naivety in worshipful love. Oh, I had bent to his will, turn after turn, but his love had been protection, and I could gladly yield myself without shame to his whims. 

"I am well," I offered. 

My voice was strung high on lust's tide. Dear me, he had managed to unspool me from dispassion to want. I was not averse to sex, but it took an unusual combination of timing and trust to bestir lower passions in me. I was not surprised that he had elicited this. I trusted him. 

As promising as this was, I meant to utilize this game to undo his obliviousness.

"Pretend that I am the One," I ordered him. 

His magic rose to sting. Anger. Bitterness. Longing had turned on itself, and he hated a man who had not come to him. He resented his wait of decades, this wretched loneliness without respite that had worn him down. 

"My head is fucked up," he confessed to my skin, to the apple of my throat. "I cannot subject you to it."

"You are vexed with him for your long wait," I said carefully. "It is understandable. You may exercise your vexation upon me."

"You aren't half as worldly as you think you are," he muttered, and his concern on my behalf warmed me. 

No, I was not as worldly as I wished I were. Sex was an afterthought to me. I had only ever found myself drawn to indulgence when first Abraxas, and then Harry, had dragged me along in their wake.

"Your magic is distinctive," Harry remarked. "I could never mistake you for anyone else."

I swallowed. I had only offered this to Abraxas, for I had trusted him with all I was, for he knew how to crack me open without shattering me.

"Voldemort?" The care in Harry's voice was heavy. 

"I can hold my magic inert, if you wished." 

I had done it at Abraxas's asking often, even if it had been arduous, what with my unravelling mind that could not bring itself to focus for any length of time. I was no longer insane. If Harry wished it, rendering my magic still would not be arduous. I feared, however- 

There was no prophecy left betwixt us. He was not my equal. The lines of fate on his palm had vanished more than twenty years ago, when our war had come to truce. 

"Go on," he said gently. His caress, drawn long, down my sternum, along my ribs, until his hand came to rest steady upon my navel, grounded me. 

Without my magic's sense, I faltered. It had been my constant, always. And Harry, Harry was not Abraxas. I had harmed him, again and again, in my madness's wake. He would-

"Hush," he whispered, thumbing away the furrows of fear etched on my brow. "You are doing well. So well."

He liked to soothe me with these nonsensical words in bed, and I drank of them greedily as manna from heaven, flowering open willingly to his touch and kiss. Abraxas had favored clever words tailored to inflame me in heady want. Harry favored praise. Fiddlers both, and I their willing instrument laid bare. He stuffed something into my mouth. Cloth. Linen. Was it- 

"No words from you now. I want you silent and sightless. You are trembling, did you know? You are frightened, aren't you? Frightened to be at my whim's mercy, without your magic to anticipate my word and deed."

The magic of the Obscurus was overwhelming upon my skin, stripping through to bone without the protection of my own magic. I felt exposed, as a raw nerve baking in the sun.

How did anyone live like this? 

He laughed. "This is how the rest of us get by. This is how _I_ get by. My magic, and that of anyone else out there; it is unreliable and whimsical, and has little to do with sense or rationality. So we live in uncertainty, every day, without knowing if our instincts are our own or that of magic's peculiarities. I have envied you, how your magic is effortlessly yours to command, serving you instead of dragging you along in its wake. "

I raised my hands to grip his shoulders, needing to be grounded in the physical, without my magic to steady me. I wished I could speak his name. I wished I could see him. I wished I could drag my evergreen's sweep along his intent's make. He would not harm me, but I wished I could _know_. 

"You are something else," he said wistfully, clasping my hands in his, squeezing them once, before sitting me up and turning me about to my hands and knees. 

I was not overfond of this position, but I knew why he had chosen it. It allowed a measure of detachment. He could pretend.   
  
"Spread," he commanded, slapping my flanks as if I were a horse. "Oh, did you know that you flush down the length of your back when you are mortified? You wear shame beautifully." 

His mouth was a marvel of depravity. I did not know how to retain a measure of self-possession when he carried on so. Without my magic to aid me, I was left floundering, rendered raw. 

"You kept me waiting," he said darkly. That broke me out of my musings. I spread my knees as best as I could. Had he meant that? Was he referring to his long wait for the One? If only I had my magic-

He hit me then, at the place where my arse met my thigh. I fell on my face, startled. I had never taken well to pain. I was a sensualist, if led gently, but masochism was not in my limited oeuvre. It took me a moment's grappling to stay my magic's instinctive flare to protect.

"I am sorry," he apologized swiftly, seeing my state. "I haven't done this before. I have only seen it in videos and read about it in Ron's and Hermione's fiction."

Then he remembered that he had rendered me silent. Gentling his manner, he pulled me back to my fours, and hit me again, lightly. Nerves woke along the path of his hands, inflamed and heady, and I surrendered to the sensual dance of strike and sound. 

"You are red now," he teased me, laughing. 

There was mockery in his tone, but it was the affectionate mockery of one who knew that he dealt pleasure. He crowded between my legs and put his mouth on the places he had reddened with his hands. This time, when I collapsed with my head pillowed on my elbows, it was from a careening spiral of want that seized me whole. All was warm and wet, under his tongue, as he coaxed me open for him. A hand came to my hip, steadying me, and another to my cock, holding it lightly pressed to my belly. His stubble dragged across my skin, across my center, burning before his tongue soothed. I was relieved that my mouth was stuffed silent. 

"You are so greedy. You should see yourself, tipping your arse back for more. I could spend all night here, eating you out until you come with my tongue in you."

I dearly hoped that was not his intent. I very much desired to be fucked. He latched his mouth to me and blew a lungful of air inside, and the lewdness of it took me aback. 

"If you keep falling on your face, I will have to put you on a bench the next time," he warned, before returning to nibble and lick and spear me open on his depraved tongue. "You will have to beg before I let up on you."

Was he in earnest? Stripped of magic and voice and sight, how was I to beg? 

"Fuck back on my tongue." 

I was uncoordinated, shocked and made hazy by his relentless pleasuring. His laughter reverberated on my skin. I closed my eyes and tried not to imagine the picture I must make, thrusting my hips back wild to fuck myself on his wicked tongue. It must have pleased him. His cock was daubing wet on my skin, heavy with want. 

Finally, he stilled my hips with a pat and moved his tongue away. Glad for the reprieve, I exhaled hard. Harry laughed and spat upon the place where he had stuck his tongue in. I buried my head in my elbows and my world narrowed to his spit trickling down my thighs. 

"What a lovely, obedient thing you are! So good for me! So very good for me!" he praised, hooking his thumbs into me, dragging me open. "You are so beautiful now, all flushed and ashamed and aroused and surrendered. I can feel you trying to close about my fingers, greedy thing. Hush, you can have what you want, in my own time. You kept me waiting, didn't you? It is my turn to make you wait now. Bear it all, sweet thing. Bear it all for me. I know you will." 

It took a great deal of focus and effort to get me off, in the normal course of things. Not then. I was close to the precipice. His wanton praise had gone straight to my cock. 

I had begun this venture to make him confront the truth. It had gone awry, rapidly. I was left a puddle of insensate want at his mercy. I could not bring myself to mind. 

"I want to fuck you like this. May I?" 

Harry, Harry, Harry. He had me hooked open on his thumbs and he was asking me if I minded a fuck? I scrambled to thrust an uncoordinated hand back, to nudge him close until his cock was pressed to me. It was as engraved an invitation as I could offer him. 

"You want it too, don't you? You want me fucking you open. You will give me a good time, won't you, sweet thing? Make it worth my wait?"

He was dragging his cock in circles about my flesh's parting without pushing it in. Sex was not my forte. I dearly hoped I could leave the fucking to him. Taking a deep breath, I twisted my hand about and led him into me. 

"Very good! You are so lovely when you are needy," he praised. "Hold yourself open, will you?"

I applied myself to his command, spreading myself open for his pleasure.

"I want to see my cock sinking into you. I want to see you loosening with every thrust." 

Where had Harry learned to speak so brashly? I was grateful that he could not see my face. I did not mind being dragged into depravity. His words, however, plucked at embarrassment I had not known myself capable of. However would I face him after this? Perhaps he was one of those who said things in the heat of passion. I doubted it. He was a generous lover and his observational skills had undone me before in bed. 

He fucked as he did anything else, with all his heart. 

"You take me as if you were made for this. You are so warm inside. And wet. I should tongue you open every morning, ready you for business. Then I can do this whenever I want. Bend you over and take you hard. A hand to your arse, a tongue in your hole, and you willingly offer yourself up to be fucked. You are easy, aren't you? I like you easy."

His mouth ran away with him in entirety. With the vigor of his fucking, I caught only half of his babble. That was mercy. 

Carried away in passion, his thrusts sped up. Without anything to hold to, I crumpled losing my balance. 

"Poor thing. Fucked silly out of your head, aren't you? Can't even stay put," he lamented, and pulled out to toss me to my back. 

"Ah! Now I can see you. Your face is creased by the linen. You look good, stuffed silent. And your eyes." 

He gathered my legs to bend them to my chest, before driving himself inside me once more. 

"Your eyes. Shocked and needy and ashamed. You didn't think I had it in me, did you? You didn't think I could fuck you as you deserved to be fucked." 

He pulled loose the cloth from my mouth and I surged up to meet him in a desperate kiss. 

"Very good," he soothed. "Let me please you now." 

I was uncertain if I had it in me to be pleased anymore. My composure and senses were in tatters. What more could he do to me? He began fucking me properly then, dragging his cock heavy along my prostate, lowering a hand to scratch along my perineum, and then dropping it further to pinch along the edges of where his cock met me. 

"Look at me," he ordered. "Look at me when I take you apart." 

Cracked open, I fell to him. 

\-------

"All right?" he asked urgently, sitting me up, forcing me to take a sip of water. "You fainted."

I had fainted. I had no sight. And my magic remained inert. 

"I am going to end the obscuring charm," he warned me. "Close your eyes. It is quite bright." 

I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I blinked my eyes open. It was brighter than summer's noontime. I turned my gaze to him. The blazing emotion in his gaze, writ open in the creases of his smile, undid me once more. 

"All right?" he urged again. 

"Magic," I said faintly. "I am unused to withdrawing my magic." 

I had not done that before in my life. Abraxas and I had experimented a few times, but he had been careful to time the intervals I restrained my magic, knowing I was to it attuned as others to breathing. 

Harry's expression fell. Horrified, he cupped my face and checked my pupils for lucidity. It was not his fault. How could he have known? 

"Draw us a bath," I asked him. "I will join you in a moment."

"Will you be all right?" he asked, worried. 

"As sunshine." I waved him off. 

When he trudged into the bathroom, I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath to unwind my magic from its restraint imposed of will. It seared through me, frightened and betrayed, swift to ascertain my safety and welfare, and then punishing in its scorching disapproval. 

Only for a moment, before it relented into its customary sweep of mourning's evergreen, love washing away all grievances, as breeze under an arbor of ash trees. 

I was on the cracked stones of an ancient temple, weeping tears of blood, cast in the shadow of a man who had been all to me. " _You have gone and made a fine hash of it, haven't you, Riddle?_ " Abraxas asked, good-humored and wry, and the affection in his voice stung. " _He exudes confidence, even if he lacks experience. I like him. He knows to crack you open and to love you well._ "

I opened my eyes. The ceiling at Swanage was blurry in my disorientation. Harry was back. There were soap bubbles in his hair. He smelled of lavender and rosemary.

"The bath is drawn," he told me, sitting beside me. "I can feel your magic again. It is a lovely, splendid thing."

"I see you are still high on postcoital languor."

"I meant everything I said," he said shortly. "Now come along. The water is warm."

I leaned into his hold as he helped me up. The searing warmth of him, of his magic, of his care that lay heavy upon me, spoke of truths rawer than any that his mind could bring itself to admit. It would be a long wait, I knew. I was exhausted. Onwards, I told myself. Ever onwards. This story would have its ending, and I knew he would come to terms with it one day. Patience settled into my bones, dragging me down with links of time's chain.

"You look tired," Harry remarked. 

"You used me up and wore me out," I met him in repartee. 

It was the truth. I was filthy and satiated past description. 

"Used you up and wore you out, did I?" He laughed. "You took to it with wild abandon, I remember." 

"I took to you with wild abandon," I corrected him. 

I could be patient. I could also lead him to the conclusion simultaneously. He flushed, abruptly wrong-footed. What was it that he was fond of telling me? _Good. Very good._

He was all chivalry and warmth as he helped me into the bath. His hands were gentle and soothing as he cleaned me from head to toe, in the places he had touched and fucked and committed various depravities upon.

"You don't mind, do you? That I did this to you?"

"No," I said frankly, leaning my head on his chest, closing my eyes and letting him tend to me. 

"I did not pretend," he confessed.

The warmth of the water, the scent of the herbs, the steady breathing of the chest I was pressed to, the tenderness of his caresses all lulled me to quiet. I did not reply. I knew he had not pretended. I knew why. And even if not consciously, so did he. 

"Voldemort."

I hummed, content in lassitude. 

"Thank you for trusting me."

Thank you for choosing me, I wanted to say. I refrained. Instead, I bent to lave at the nearest nipple on him. 

"Haven't you had enough?" he teased. "Greedy thing." The reverent tenderness in his voice flayed. 

"Take me back to bed. I know you wish to."

"Yes," he breathed. 

"Yes," he said again, and it was a vow.

He kissed me then as a man kisses his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> Porn tying into Pandemic's Chapters 9 through 11, for the contextual wankers.


End file.
